


Mine

by simplyspn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom John, Hurt John, Hurt Sherlock, Jealous Sherlock, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Mentions of alcoholism, Possessive Sherlock, Rimming, Top Sherlock, a bit of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-11
Updated: 2016-06-11
Packaged: 2018-07-14 11:22:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7169024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyspn/pseuds/simplyspn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John sells himself in an attempt to get over Sherlock. Sherlock finds out what he is doing, and decides to make it known that John is his.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mine

John hummed out his approval as the man’s lips pressed against his neck.

 

Yes, this was going to be how John Watson would get over Sherlock leaving him. He would get stupid pissed and find random drunks to take the ache away. He was quickly dissolving, becoming the alcoholic that his sister and father had become. But now, suddenly, he understood. All of his hectic thoughts and memories of the nights he spent tangled together with the man he loved so much had been replaced with the quiet buzz brought on by intoxication – along with the words that ended it all.

 

_Your temper, John. I can’t do it anymore. Just go._

 

Another argument over something that shouldn’t have been an argument in the first place. At first, John had thought he had every reason to be angry – he had walked into the sitting room that morning, still groggy from sleep, and got slapped in the face from a disembodied arm that hung from the ceiling. But after their breakup, John missed it. John missed not knowing what body parts he would find in the fridge or what organs would inevitably be occupying the kettle.

 

He had tried to call Sherlock multiple times since that day, even visiting the flat. He didn’t want to border on harassment and eventually gave up. It was obvious to the heartbroken blogger – Sherlock was completely done with him. It also made John realise that he did have a problem with his anger, and he needed to get in under control. But how could he? His life was spiralling out of control without the mad detective by his side. Somehow, the madness that Sherlock brought also brought John a sort of peace.

 

Mycroft had been right. John needed chaos.

 

Their break up had been three weeks ago. That night had been when he started drinking. A week after that was when he resorted to letting himself be used by whoever wanted to use him. He’d never gone past quick handjobs and sloppy blowjobs in the alley behind the bar he frequented, and once or twice his partner had tried to pay him. At first, John declined. But when he stopped showing up for work and lost his job, he decided that it wasn’t such a bad idea. He was living in a cheap bedsit in a grimy part of town, but he still needed to pay rent. John thought nothing of himself without Sherlock. He was worthless, and teetering dangerously close to the edge of leaving everything behind. But at least, to these nameless men, he was good for something – even if it was only for ten minutes.

 

Another sigh of desire passed the doctor’s lips as the man – James. Or was it George? – grazed his teeth over John’s collarbone. Usually John was the one doing this, but it was nice to be treated for once. Though, the man didn’t know John’s body like Sherlock did. Sherlock knew where to kiss, where to bite, even when to do it, to have John writhing at his touch, unable to speak clearly. John pushed the thought from his head and closed his eyes, letting himself get lost in the sensation of the man’s tongue on the underside of his jaw.

 

The stranger’s hands slid to John’s hips, pulling him in until their bodies collided. “We’ve not talked about prices yet,” the man whispered against wet flesh, his breath causing John to shiver. John slowly forced his eyes to open, greeted with the flashing multi-coloured lights the club offered. “Hm.” He murmured, his mind processing English a bit slower than he would have liked. “£250 for the night, £100 for one round, and £50 for a blowjob or hand job in the alley.” He rambled off the prices like he was reading them off a menu. A moment later, even as the man’s hands moved to reach into his back pocket, his lips latched onto John’s neck. A moment later, £250 was slid across the bar, under John’s waiting fingertips.

 

~o~

 

Sherlock had regretted leaving John exactly 14 hours and 17 minutes later, when he rolled over in the bed they once shared, expecting to pull John into his arms. Instead, all he found was an empty bed, still made – proof that John hadn’t been there at all. Sherlock gathered John’s pillow into his arms and buried his face into it, breathing in the smell of cheap shampoo and _John._

 

His pride wouldn’t let him go back, though. Even when he realised that he was _in love_ with John. Even when he realised that everything he did held less purpose without John there, sharing the moment with him. When John’s calls started coming in, it physically pained Sherlock to ignore them and to erase the voice messages without listening to them. He had to beg Mrs. Hudson to constantly tell John that he wasn’t in when he came around, and Mrs. Hudson would always report that John looked awful.

 

Sherlock couldn’t help but feel responsible. He had taken the strongest man he had ever known – a soldier – and broken him.

 

Then the calls stopped. And John stopped coming around. That hurt even more than having to ignore the calls and hearing Mrs. Hudson’s stories of how dishevelled John looked. Had his doctor given up? Maybe Sherlock had gone too far this time. He tended to do that; to go too far without realising it. Even as a master of deduction, he never seemed able to deduce the consequences to his own actions. Would he ever to be able to fix this? He couldn’t fathom a life without John at his side. The thought churned his stomach. Who would remind him to eat? To take his medicine? That his excitement over murder was _a bit not good_?

 

The knot in his stomach grew, and the detective ran to the bathroom. He barely got through the door before he got sick. He needed John back.

 

~o~

 

It took four hours, three phone calls, two temper tantrums, and one British Government employee to track down John’s whereabouts for the night. Sherlock hated resorting to his brother for help, but John would likely not go anywhere his Homeless Network would be able to go without being spotted, and as much as he didn’t-hate Lestrade, it would have taken him much longer to track down John and Sherlock needed to find him quickly. He couldn’t wait any longer to make amends. So Mycroft was his solution.

 

When Mycroft told him that John was at Club Frenzy – a sketchy nightclub on the outskirts of the city – Sherlock’s heart sank and went into overdrive simultaneously. What had he done? Had he sent John into some sort of depression that he could only ease by drinking? Addiction ran in John’s family. John already had a greater disposition for an addictive personality because of it. Sherlock grabbed his coat and ran down the stairs. He had no qualms about pushing a couple out of the way to take the cab they had been getting into – his need to get to John was more important than their dinner reservations. In what had to be record time, Sherlock was standing outside the doors of the club, only metres away from John.

 

The detective was hit with the smell of stale alcohol and just a hint of body odour when he opened the door. This was definitely not a place John should be. He deserved so much better than this. His eyes scanned the club for the blond hair and familiar frame he was searching for. The club was packed tonight, but it still took Sherlock less than three minutes to find John – with someone else.

 

Sherlock felt his heart shatter.

 

The man was large, and towered over John. His hair was scraggly and unkempt and he had stubble peppering his face from a few days of not shaving. His skin was dark from a job in direct sunlight, and tattoos snaked up and down his left arm, disappearing into the sleeve of his shirt. Sherlock had to swallow back the lump in his throat. He had something so beautiful with John, and he managed to ruin it. He had gotten angry that John couldn’t keep his temper under control, when he had the same problem. At least when John got mad it had merit. Sherlock got mad because John was mad, and in turn ended up ruining the best thing he had ever had.

 

John had told Sherlock he loved him, but Sherlock never said it back. Now, more than anything, he wished he had. Would this man be getting John’s love now? Would this man get the goodnight kisses, and fingers through his hair? Would he get to wear John’s jumpers when he was cold? Would John make him mug-brownies in the winter? Who was this man that had so effortlessly stolen Sherlock’s life?

 

Sherlock’s vision blurred with tears that went unshed. He wanted to look away. He wanted to leave. But he couldn’t. John was saying something now, his lips moving rhythmically. Oh, what Sherlock wouldn’t give to hear that voice. But he couldn’t figure out why the man was reaching into his pocket, pulling out his wallet. When he slid the money to John, Sherlock finally pieced it together.

 

John was selling himself.

 

This man didn’t care about John at all.

 

John was letting these men use him. All because of Sherlock. He watched in horror as John’s fingers curled around the banknotes and slid them into his back pocket. The man practically lunged at John then, as if paying had given him the right to defile his body in any way he could dream of. Rage flared inside of Sherlock. Rage at this unnamed man for thinking it was okay to pay for John, his John. Rage at himself for letting it come to this. John was clearly intoxicated – maybe not fully drunk, but enough that his decision-making skills would be affected.

 

John had lurched backwards as the man jumped at him. It was a reflex from his days in the military. The combination of his jump and the man’s leap had John’s body pinned against the bar painfully. Sherlock could see it in his face, that it hurt. But the man didn’t seem to notice, and if he did, he didn’t seem to care. He wasn’t being gentle with John, which enraged him even more. John liked to be touched a certain way, and this man was doing it all wrong. He was grabbing too roughly at his marred shoulder, not grinding in the rhythm that John preferred.

 

But what really, really set Sherlock over the edge was when the stranger reached down and began to palm John’s cock through his jeans.

 

He knew it would happen. He had seen the man pay for it. But it still angered him. John was _his_. John’s hands moved onto the man’s shoulders, his body a bit tenser than Sherlock would have liked to see. If John had been enjoying this, he would have already been a blabbering mess of moans and gasps and ‘ _oh god please’_. Instead, it looked like he was doing everything he could not to push the man’s too-rough hand away.

 

Sherlock had had enough.

 

He marched over to the two men, grabbing the back of the man’s shirt and ripping him off of John. “What the fuck, man? I’m busy here!” His accent indicated he was from Ireland – though, not from descent. His skin was too tanned. Sherlock’s eyes caught John’s for a moment, and John looked equal parts terrified and thankful.

 

“Sherlock…”

 

“Are you okay?”

 

“You…”

 

“Are you okay?!”

 

John could do nothing more than nod, moving to straighten his clothing. The man glared at Sherlock, icy brown eyes staring at him. “I paid. I get my night, or I get my money back.” Sherlock could hear John swallow and shift to retrieve the cash. Sherlock held up his hand to stop him, and instantly John obeyed. Sherlock took a step closer to the man and matched his glare. “Let’s get one thing straight. He is _mine._ And you are not getting your night with him. You are also not getting your money back. I guarantee you, getting to touch him at all is worth more than whatever you paid. I suggest you leave. Now.” Sherlock’s words came out in a primal growl that had John’s eyes bulging. He hadn’t heard that side of him before.

 

Also, had Sherlock just said that John belonged to him?

 

The man walked passed Sherlock but abruptly stopped at John. John looked away after just a moment, and the man continued, shouldering him as he passed. Sherlock growled again.

 

“Sherlock.” John warned, but it was too late. Sherlock had grabbed the man by the hair and pulled him back until his back hit Sherlock’s chest. All John could do was stare.

 

“Now, that was a little unnecessary, wasn’t it? If you so much as even _think_ about him, I will hunt you down and not even the British Government will be able to find your body. Go.” Sherlock shoved him forward, and this time the man looked a bit shaken. Sherlock’s threat had sounded serious.

 

John looked up at Sherlock, to find that the detective was already looking at him. He opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock shook his head. “No. Not here. God, not here.” John nodded, and Sherlock grabbed at his wrist, tugging him gently toward the door. John didn’t move at first. “I’ve got a tab…” his voice was sheepish; it was something he clearly didn’t want to admit. Not now. Not ever. Sherlock’s features softened and all he could do was nod. He had done this, he thought for what had to be the twelfth time since he found out John was here. John reached for his wallet and Sherlock gently touched his hand, shaking his head.

 

“I’ve got it.” John blinked. Wasn’t Sherlock still mad? He should be. He should be yelling at him and telling him what an idiot he is and telling him that this is why he left him – because he so stupid. He shouldn’t be covering his tab. He watched in awe and confusion as he handed his card over to the barman.

 

John didn’t know where they were going. Sherlock didn’t know where he lived now, but he knew his home was no longer Baker Street – though he wished more than anything that it was. He knew if they went back there, he would leave feeling more broken than before. But he couldn’t say no to Sherlock, even when the cab stopped in front of 221B. Even when John felt his heart break once again. He was beginning to think he would never be able to put all these pieces back together.

 

Again, he had gone to pay. And again, Sherlock had paid instead. It was very different than what was considered normal for them. Usually, Sherlock was rushing off with something on his mind, leaving John to cover the bill. But tonight, Sherlock was being very attentive. John couldn’t figure out what it meant.

 

Sherlock opened the door and ushered John inside. John stood awkwardly in the doorway, not going up the stairs, but not fleeing either. Sherlock didn’t think he could hurt anymore, but he was proven wrong. Seeing John feel so unwelcomed and uncomfortable in his own home – that was painful. “Go on, John.” He said softly, not rushing him. He had done detrimental damage this time, and if he had to show vast amounts of patience to fix this, he would.

 

After a few moments of shifting his weight from one foot to the other, John finally ascended the steps. Everyone had their own sound on the steps, so Sherlock always knew who was coming before he saw them. John _always_ squeaked the seventh stair. Sherlock had never heard a sound more welcoming than when that stair squeaked as John stepped on it for the first time in over three weeks.

 

John opened the door to the flat, his eyes scanning the rooms slowly. He had expected everything that proved he had ever existed to be gone. Instead, everything looked exactly the same. His medical books that he had left behind were still stacked on the corner of the desk. The book he had been reading was still marked on the end table, beside the chair that hadn’t been moved. Even his elephant statue still held its place on the mantel.

 

Sherlock could sense John’s shock. Had John really thought he meant so little to Sherlock that he would throw him away? Sherlock had said he couldn’t take John’s anger anymore, but _this_ was really what he couldn’t take anymore. The distance. The hurt that clouded John’s once-luminous eyes. Sherlock stepped behind John and gently moved his arms around his waist. To Sherlock’s relief, John relaxed at his touch, and leaned back against his chest.

 

“I could never get rid of your things, John.” Sherlock’s voice was soft, warm breath caressing John’s ear as he spoke. John was still looking in amazement. He had expected every trace of him to be gone, but instead it looked like he had just gone out for the day. Aside from what he had taken with him when he left, everything was there. John turned in Sherlock’s arms so he was facing him, their chests pressed together.

 

“I’m sorry. For getting angry. I never realised how much I would miss having lungs in the fridge until there weren’t any there. It’s part of you, part of who you are, and I don’t want to change a single thing about you. I’m sorry I got mad about it.” His words were just as soft as Sherlock’s, making the apology much more sincere and intimate.

 

Sherlock slipped his finger under John’s chin, using it to tilt his head up. “John. You had every right to be angry. And…about tonight…” Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, the image of that man’s hands all over John filling his mind. It caused him to pull John closer, squeeze him tighter. “You’re _mine._ And you don’t need…you don’t need men like that. You don’t need men to just use you to get off. Men that will just…treat you like a breathing sex doll. You deserve so much more than that. Hell, you deserve more than anyone is ever going to be capable of giving you. But if you’ll let me…I’d like to try again…”

 

All John could do was stare at him, absorbing his words. Sherlock rarely apologised, especially when it included admitting he was wrong. And he was asking for John to give him another chance. There was no doubt at all that John had a world of chances for this man. This man he loved so much, even if he didn’t love him back. In lieu of words, John leaned up and sealed their lips together, kissing him slowly.

 

Sherlock melted into the kiss. Three weeks was far too long to go without having John’s lips on his. He could still taste the man in John’s mouth, and he let his tongue wander around, trying desperately to erase every trace of him. He could also taste the whiskey, which added a hint of bitterness that he didn’t mind too much, because underneath it all was _John._ The John that had killed a man for him, the John that had followed him into danger without always knowing why, but just trusting Sherlock. The John that believed in Sherlock when the rest of the world didn’t.

 

John fisted the front of Sherlock’s shirt in his hands, pulling him in closer until they were nearly smashed together. Sherlock made a swift movement to take off his coat. For the first time, he let it fall to the floor instead of hanging it up. Sherlock didn’t let his lips part from John’s body for long. Even as they made their way to the bedroom, Sherlock was nipping at his shoulder, or kissing his neck.

 

Sherlock couldn’t believe he had let this go. He couldn’t believe he had let himself take the way that John made him feel for granted. It sent a fire burning deep within him, an undying need to show John what he meant to him. Sherlock didn’t bother to shut the door behind him. He was quite certain Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t be coming up for the rest of the night. And frankly, he was too focused on touching the soft skin of John’s cheeks that he had missed so much.

 

The detective held John’s cheeks in his hands, kissing him with a passion he didn’t even know he was capable of. It elicited a strangled groan from John’s throat, which had Sherlock pressing against him more. The blogger toppled backwards when the backs of his knees hit the bed. Sherlock didn’t hesitate to follow. His hands roamed every inch of his clothed angel, praising him silently. John’s lips had parted in quiet whimpers just from Sherlock’s touches.

 

“You’re so beautiful, John,” he whispered, his hands brushing over John’s stomach, sliding his jumper over his head and tossing it to the side. John hated his stomach so much, but Sherlock loved it. “Perfect.” He whispered, leaning down to kiss it softly, before moving up to kiss the scar on his shoulder. “Breath-taking.” Another whisper. John was starting to squirm beneath him now, a smile tugging at Sherlock’s lips. He leaned forward and kissed his jaw gently. “Stunning.”

 

John’s hands moved up to grip Sherlock’s hips, trying desperately to pull him down. Sherlock allowed him to. When their hips met, a sob of need passed John’s lips. Sherlock ran his hands over John’s thighs. This man was so incredibly beautiful. “You’re mine, John. And mine alone. Always.” He whispered the words, not harshly, but his tone held seriousness. He couldn’t stand the thought of John with someone else, especially knowing that none of them would ever treat him right. His lips pressed to Johns, and John let out a quiet moan that Sherlock quickly swallowed as he fumbled with the flies on John’s jeans, before removing them along with his pants. The detective took a moment to stare at his doctor, naked and beautiful as ever, before capturing his lips in another kiss.

John sighed in relief when he was no longer confined to the denim. Sherlock smiled as he leaned down to kiss his neck, sucking and biting away every bit of the man until only Sherlock remained – and a few bite marks to mark John as his. Sherlock’s hands brushed down John’s body once more, this time pressing against his cock. John gasped, his back arching. Sherlock pulled his hand away, leaving John bucking his hips into the air in search of some resistance, whimpering when he found none.

 

“Patience, my love.” He said quietly, removing his own clothes now. John watched in awe as alabaster skin was revealed to him, piece by piece, until his marble masterpiece was completely in view. John was left breathless. He never thought he’d get to see this again aside from in his dreams. John reached up, fingers dancing over Sherlock’s ribs. Sherlock hummed quietly – he loved being touched by John, loved his fingers on his bare flesh. He leaned forward after a moment and kissed him slowly, settling himself between John’s legs.

 

John loved the weight of Sherlock’s body on top of his own. He loved the feel of Sherlock’s breaths over his skin. Sherlock reached to the bedside table and searched for the bottle of lubricant, reluctantly breaking the kiss. John slowly let his eyes flutter open, and was greeted with the sight of Sherlock moving down the bed, on his stomach. His heart kicked into overtime. They had talked about possibly doing this a few times, but had never actually done it.

 

“Sherlock…” When Sherlock’s tongue circled John’s entrance, John exhaled a shaky breath. Sherlock moved his hand, gently massaging John’s perineum as he pressed his tongue against the tight ring of muscle. John’s moans were low and long, emanating from deep within his chest. Those sounds alone were enough to keep Sherlock going. He played with John’s balls, massaging and tugging them gently, occasionally pulling back from John’s entrance to suck one into his mouth. He was rewarded with a scream of his name and a tug to his hair as John bucked up in search of more.

 

John didn’t think anyone could be as talented with their tongue as Sherlock was. When Sherlock spread him open just enough to slip the tip of his tongue inside his waiting entrance, John swore he could have come right then and there. Through his own moans he could hear the click of the lid being opened on the bottle of lube. He pressed his hips down further to Sherlock, crying out for more. John didn’t see Sherlock put the lube on his fingers, so he wasn’t expecting him to insert one.

 

“Fu-ck. Sherlo-ck” His words were extended with moans, hips bearing down for more. Sherlock grinned up at him, twisting his finger slightly. “More…” He begged, spreading his legs. It took every bit of Sherlock’s dwindling self-control not to lube up his cock and take John without prepping him, but John was worth the wait.

 

“Almost, John. Relax, so I can add more.” Sherlock’s instructions were followed immediately, and he was able to ease in another finger, and a third after that. Sherlock’s fingers grazed over John’s prostate, making him cry out Sherlock’s name. By the time he pulled his fingers out, John wasn’t even capable of a complete sentence. It was beautiful, knowing he could be brought to this state by Sherlock’s actions.

 

Sherlock couldn’t wait any longer though. His own erection was painfully hard and was leaking so much pre-come that there was now a large wet spot on the bedding where he had been lying. He grabbed the bottle of lubricant once more, and coated himself in the gel. John was watching him, anxiously waiting for him.

 

“Ready?” His voice was deep with arousal. All John could do was nod vigorously. Sherlock held to John’s hips as he lined himself up and slowly pushed forward. John’s moan was melodic. If he could have composed a song to that sound, he would have. His own moan mingled with John’s as they joined for the first time in nearly a month, their bodies becoming one again. He forced himself to move slowly so he wouldn’t hurt John, and when he was finally in to the hilt, he shivered from the feeling. He was surrounded by familiar wet heat that welcomed him completely.

 

“Move” John groaned, rocking his hips to show Sherlock he was ready now. Sherlock gladly obeyed. His thrusts were slow and hard, just like John liked. John’s hips occasionally moved as well, meeting him halfway, causing them both to moan out in unexpected pleasure when their bodies collided harder than they anticipated. Sherlock leaned forward and buried his face in John’s neck, kissing and sucking at the skin, taking in every bit of him.

 

John moaned on each exhale, his fingers wrapped tightly around Sherlock’s biceps. Sherlock had pushed his knees up to gain a new angle, making it harder for John to arch his back, but easier for him to get friction on his own throbbing cock. He could see Sherlock watching himself slide in and out of John. He had never told Sherlock how much that turned him on, knowing that he watched so closely. Maybe John could make it easier for him to watch.

 

“I wanna ride you.” John managed to get the words out between gasps. Sherlock looked up at him with wide eyes. It was something else they haven’t done before, but god, John wanted to try. Sherlock looked at him questioningly, and when John nodded that he was sure, Sherlock was quick to roll them over so John was on top. Sherlock’s pupils were blown completely as he watched John slowly lower himself onto him, head tipped back, throat vibrating from the intensity of his moan as Sherlock disappeared inside of him.

 

“Fuck. John…” Sherlock pushed his hips up, sending him deeper into John. John splaying his fingers across Sherlock’s chest to keep his balance before he started bouncing. Just like he planned. Sherlock’s eyes fell, watching himself disappear inside of John. That made John increase the speed of his movements, until he was going as fast as he could. He couldn’t tell Sherlock’s moans apart from his own. Sherlock’s hand came up and wrapped around John’s cock, stroking each time John rose his hips so he was in a constantly state of unimaginable pleasure.

 

“Sherlock! Fuck. I-I’m gonna…god. Ah!” His nails raked down Sherlock’s chest, leaving long pink lines in their wake. Sherlock’s hips slammed up, the sound of skin slapping skin adding to the chorus of noises that filled the room.

 

“Come. Come for me, John.” Sherlock was close himself, he could feel the pressure at the base of his spine, could feel the heat rushing to his core, but he wanted John to come first. John’s hips fell onto Sherlock, grinding down so he was moving in circles inside of him, hitting his prostate. His head tipped back as he cried out Sherlock’s name. Sherlock watched as John’s cock pulsed in his hand and shot out long strings of come, splattering his chest and neck.

 

Sherlock’s peak followed right after. He grabbed to John’s hips, making sure to hold him in place as he emptied himself inside of him. John bounced a few more times, milking him completely before collapsing on top of him. Sherlock reached over the side of the bed carefully for his shirt and used it to clean them both off, before gathering John in his arms. John fit so perfectly there, his head against Sherlock’s chest, right over his heartbeat.

“John?” Sherlock whispered, his fingers running through John’s sandy hair. John pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s chest that made the detective smile.

 

“Yeah?” He whispered back, humming as Sherlock’s fingers danced up and down his spine.

 

“I love you, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Constructive criticism always welcome :) Sorry if there are any errors, I did this in a rush before work! You can send any requests to consultingcurls.tumblr.com :)


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